


nights come together like the sheets and bury me

by Ischa



Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Showers, incest (implied)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-27
Updated: 2012-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-06 03:30:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ischa/pseuds/Ischa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Damon takes care of Stefan in his own way. </p><p>  <i>“I-” Stefan starts and then again after a few minutes that stretch like an eternity, “I did-”<br/>“I don't want to know,” Damon cuts in, because he doesn't. Isn't sure his well constructed shell, this armour he created, is going to hold if Stefan should finish that sentence.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	nights come together like the sheets and bury me

**Pairing:** gen (with subtext)  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Summary:** Damon takes care of Stefan in his own way.  
 _“I-” Stefan starts and then again after a few minutes that stretch like an eternity, “I did-”  
“I don't want to know,” Damon cuts in, because he doesn't. Isn't sure his well constructed shell, this armour he created, is going to hold if Stefan should finish that sentence._  
 **Warning(s):** none  
 **Author’s Notes:** Inspired by slashaddx' story Tub time. I have no excuse and I was told I don't need one. Title: Pablo Neruda.  
 **Word Count:** 1.454  
 **Beta:** slashaddx, asm_z  
 **Disclaimer:** Don’t know, don’t own, not real 

\---  
~1~  
Damon hears him as soon as he steps on the gravel of the driveway. He knows how Stefan's steps sound and something is different tonight. He keeps his eyes closed and listens. Keeps his breath shallow, too. The night is hot, but his room isn't. Sometimes he wonders how Stefan can live under the freaking roof during summer, or even early spring when the sun heats Stefan's room up like an oven. Stefan stops just outside the door. Damon is so close to writing it off, turning around, and burying his head in the clean smelling pillow and trying to fall asleep again.  
He doesn't. He sits up instead because he didn't hear the soft creak the door makes every time someone opens it. Stefan isn't home yet. He's still outside the door, standing in front of it or sitting on the stairs.  
Damon isn't sure he wants to know.  
He gets up anyway.  
His feet make soft sounds on the wood-floors and are swallowed by the carpets alternately. He reaches for the door, but doesn't open it. He can hear Stefan breathe on the other side of the wood. He leans his forehead against it. Breathes softly, carefully. Counts in his head. 3...2...1.

“You're late. There's a curfew,” he says, leaning against the frame.  
Stefan doesn't look in his direction, he's staring at the small piece of sky visible between the branches of the trees. He tries to keep his breathing calm, but Damon knows him, has known him since Stefan was born. His fingers itch for a cigarette, just so he has something to do with them instead of reaching out. Like he used to when they were human and whole and Stefan was sad.  
Like he is now and he's been crying.  
Damon digs his fingers into his own skin until it starts to bleed to distract himself.  
Stefan's head snaps in his direction then. His eyes are huge and sad and hungry. 

“You're going to howl at the moon or are you coming in?” Damon asks.  
Stefan nods, but Damon has no idea what it means. It used to be different; he used to know Stefan like he knew himself. He waits Stefan out. 

“I-” Stefan starts and then again after a few minutes that stretch like an eternity, “I did-”

“I don't want to know,” Damon cuts in, because he doesn't. Isn't sure his well constructed shell, this armour he created, is going to hold if Stefan should finish that sentence.  
Stefan nods sharply like he gets it, but it looks unhappy too. But then Stefan is rarely really happy these days like he used to be.

“I'm coming in,” Stefan says, getting up carefully.  
There is earth on his clothes, it smells sweetly wet and rotten and underneath that Damon can smell blood. Faint, spoiled, caked, but there.  
He makes room for Stefan, so they don't touch as he enters. 

 

~2~  
Stefan falls down on the couch heavily. Damon watches at a safe distance as he takes of his shoes and socks in the dim lamplight. He leans against the back of the couch, closes his eyes and breathes.

“You're still bleeding,” he says.  
Damon looks at the marks on his arms, the blood under his fingernails. He is still bleeding because he can't make himself relax. Not when Stefan is like this.

“Thank you captain obvious.” 

Stefan's lips curl into something that could be a smile one day with a lot of good therapy. “You're always doing this.” 

“What?” 

“You're using sarcasm to deal with-” he stops, bites his lip and finishes with: “stuff.” 

Stuff, Damon thinks. Yeah certainly. Everything could be described with the word 'stuff'. “It's my modus operandi. I know it, you know, the freaking town knows it.” 

“You used to be different,” Stefan says, opening his eyes and turning his head to look at Damon. It's a raw look, showing too much of the things Damon doesn't want to know, doesn't want to face and deal with. He wants to say: you used to be different too, but he doesn't. 

“You used to be clean.” 

Stefan laughs, it does sound amused, but also like it hurts. It probably does. “When?” he wants to know and it throws Damon off. They don't talk about it. They don't need to talk about it. It makes Damon angry when they try to face the past. It makes him vengeful, makes him want to throw things, rip out hearts and throats and put stakes into soft fleshy parts of bodies. 

“Before we met her,” Damon bites out. 

“Ah,” Stefan answers. 

Damon makes his fingers relax around his arms, so his nails don't make him bleed anymore. His own blood is enough to make him manic at times like this. “Are you going to brood all night?” 

“I might, are you going to scheme?” Stefan gives back. 

“I might,” Damon answers, but it wasn't what he wanted to say. On the other hand, he rarely says what he really wants to say these days anymore. Because if you say things one time too many they lose their meaning. Damon looks at his brother, in the dim lamplight, body half in dark, stark shadows. It's fitting somehow. 

“Damon,” Stefan whispers suddenly and Damon knows he has to leave. 

“Night, Stefan,” he cuts in. 

Stefan sighs. “Night.” 

 

~3~  
Damon steps into the shower to wash the blood off and the night and to block out Stefan's scent: earth, damp and swamp-like, with a dash of rotten blood. It reminds him of nights spent in the south when he used to be drunk on women, blood and cheap booze.  
He hears Stefan getting up downstairs, hears his naked feet on the wood and carpet, the noises his clothes make when he moves.  
They stop outside the bathroom door, even if it isn't closed. He's hesitating and Damon is waiting. He's not encouraging this, whatever this is for Stefan, but he knows as sure as he knows the sun is the eternal enemy of vampires, that he won't be able to send Stefan away.  
Because the first thing Stefan always was, always will be is Damon's little brother.  
Stefan doesn't say a word as he enters the bathroom; his feet make a different sound on the damp tiles than on the wood-floors. All this registers in Damon's brain before Stefan steps under the spray. He's still fully clothed.  
Damon watches the caked blood mingle with water and change to pale brownish rivets running down Stefan's neck and shoulder, and disappearing in his shirt. There's mud on the bottom of the bathtub now.  
Stefan steps closer and rests his head against Damon's chest and Damon lets him. Lets him press closer and hug him tight. His dirty wet clothes uncomfortable against Damon's skin, but Stefan's hair and breath so familiar it hurts. The scent changes under the spray from swamp-like to clean water. His own fingers tangle in the wet clothes as he holds Stefan in return. Breathing in sync in a glass box for a while until Stefan's shaky breath makes it shatter.  
Damon just knows that Stefan is on the verge of saying something Damon isn't ready to hear, so he grabs Stefan by the neck hard and pulls him away. Holding him at arm's length. He resists the urge to slam Stefan against the tiles and is proud of himself. 

“I can't be alone tonight,” Stefan whispers and it sounds utterly defeated. Damon's fingers tighten on his brother's neck until Stefan winces in pain.  
Anger and something else, something tender Damon doesn't like to face often or let out to breathe, don't mention play, are battling inside him upon hearing Stefan's admission.  
Stefan used to sleep in Damon's bed when they were kids and he was afraid of thunder and all the imaginary monsters living under his bed. Damon didn't mind back then. 

“I need to sleep,” he says and Stefan lets out a relived breath. Damon lets go, switches of the shower, grabs a towel, tosses one over to Stefan. He only dries his hair, it's hot enough that his skin will be dry probably before he reaches the bed.  
He doesn't wait for Stefan to follow him. He knows Stefan will.

He falls asleep to Stefan's rhythmic breath and with his fingertips resting against his chest, just where a stake would fit nicely, where it always seems to hurt so much. 

~end~


End file.
